He couldn’t know. I had to believe that because if I didn’t trust him, this thing between us—whatever it was trying to become again—would never survive.
Tomorrow. I’d get answers tomorrow.
But tonight… I held him. Because he needed it. And maybe I did too.
19
HUDSON
Icouldn’t remember the last time I’d slept so well.
No stiffness in my back. No ache in my legs. No weight pressing down on my chest like a goddamn boulder. Just warmth. Quiet. A soft sheet tangled around my waist.
I smiled as the memory of Matty flooded my mind. He’d been in my bed last night. We’d talked and kissed and made love. And it’d been beautiful.
We’d held each other.
We’d found our rhythm again.
God, it’d felt so fucking good to fall asleep with my head on his chest. I stretched a little, rolling onto my side, instinctively reaching toward the other half of the bed?—
Nothing.
My fingers brushed a pillow. Cool. Empty.
I blinked, confusion sliding in to replace the comfort. I pushed up on one elbow, rubbed my eyes, then patted the mattress again, slower this time, like maybe I’d missed him somehow.
But no Matty.
The space where he’d been was cold.
I sat up fully, heart knocking a little harder against my ribs. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Last night felt like a turning point. Like the moment we’d finally stopped pretending. We’d made promises with our hands and mouths, if not with words. And yeah, I’d fallen asleep fast, but I figured I’d wake up to his thigh across mine or his stupid heavy arm draped over my waist.
That was how it always used to be.
We’d switch positions during the night without ever meaning to, one of us always finding our way around the other. It became a little joke between us. Who would be the big spoon by morning? Who would groan and accuse the other of being a blanket thief?
But this morning… no blanket thief.
No Matty.
My chest tightened.
Had he left?
Had he woken up and realized he’d made a mistake?
I dragged a hand over my face and dropped back against the bed, staring at the ceiling. Shit. What if he’d had time to think about all the baggage I’d dumped on him? About being a prostitute. My prison record. His mother.
Maybe I should have left that part out. Maybe I should have left a lot of it out.
And then Ivy, screaming in the night like her little soul was splitting in half.
What the hell kind of life was I offering him?
What the hell kind of man was I?
I rolled onto my side, staring at the crumpled pillow again, trying to find some trace of him in the dent left behind.
